Exactly one week ago, as I propped myself up next to the toilet awaiting the green light from my body to either a) continue barfing,or b) get up to go brush my teeth, I was in a small panic about the internship situation. You see, I need the internship to validate my year of studies and, well, I was supposed to start it in early February and I hadn't sent a single CV.

Today, I am making arrangements with my professors and my new boss at Ircam to sign my contract and it looks like I will be spending another summer in the cozy comfort of the French cultural machine. While last summer was spent with Assyrian kings, 16th century relic holders and lots of jingoistic revolutionary paintings, this summer will be spent alongside computer nerds, composers and complicated machinery that is supposed to make music better, and a great view of the Stravinsky Fountain. And while my professor is pleading with me to not take a cultural job, saying that I would succeed in the consulting world, there was something comforting in the way that people at Ircam did their best to wander into the office by 10:30. The way they dressed in business clothes that were just a bit off, a bit nutty professor. I felt like I was coming home.

I will never make a lot of money or dazzle the rank-and-filers with my title. But this is not my goal. Whereas AssRay's definition of success is to be able to go to the movies whenever he wants, mine is to never have to pay for a concert. Together, our asses will get to know many different varieties of theater seats.

At Cornell, perhaps one of the most recognizable students on campus was a girl simply known as "80s chick." A mane of permed blond hair with perfectly sprayed bangs framed her pale face, painted with fuck-me red lipstick and "outrageous" blue eyeshadow. Her gestures and manner of speaking reeked of the popular girls in a John Hughes high school (she used to come through my line at the campus store). A friend claims she once saw 80s chick driving through Collegetown in a red convertible blaring "Eye of the Tiger." Either she was way ahead of the trends, going back to the 80s about 5 years before the (inexplicable) comeback of turquoise and legwarmers, or she was stuck in some kind of time warp.

I have recently been considering the permanent removal of my nose ring, mostly to avoid 80s chick syndrome. To grow up. To accept that I am no longer the 19-year old girl who had a spike driven through her nose to deal with the heartbreak of a 6-month college relationship. That often when I meet friends for a drink, it is the one without the stud in her nose that seems the non-conformist.

So before my interview at Ircam on Friday, I removed the little bugger. Then I left for the country for the weekend and left the stud at home. I didn't sleep well all weekend. The room was lightless and warm, very quiet, but I was anxious. Every time I brushed the left side of my nose, the unnatural smoothness caused a bolt of panic followed by a profound sadness. It is not that different from the feeling I had watching my brother squeeze his wife's hand at their wedding, as they recited their vows. This feeling of being dragged toward adulthood unwillingly.

Last night, watching a few episodes of Grey's Anatomy in bed with AssRay, I made him pause the show. I had teared up after another brush with the unadorned nose and had to rush into the bathroom, praying that the hole had not scarred over, relieved when the ring spiraled in easily. I slept like a baby.

I always joked that my grandkids would get a kick playing with gramma's nose ring, but now I realize that it is no joke. Will I ever "grow up" enough to be able to remove it without causing an emotional meltdown? Or will I be forever known as 90s grrrl? The one who still has the nose ring. At least I no longer have any pairs of big pants or rainbow hologram sneakers, or 6-inch platform boots, or velour bowling shirts. So for now, the nose ring stays, at the risk of eternal lameness.

Yesterday I came down with the flu. Not just aches and sniffles, but the full-blown toilet-hugging variation. I slept all day as the anxiety mounted all around me. I have yet to be paid for the translation work I have been doing. Not to mention that my job in French TV seems to have also disappeared as I cannot find my journalist who was supposed to set me up. I have to do an internship in order to get my diploma. I had not yet started looking for. And then there were the endless phone calls from AssRay's various family members: "We need two more rooms reserved at the Chateau." "Saturday, we are meeting with the caterer at 1, the baker at 3, the chateau people at 5, etc." "I accidentally told our cousin about the dinner and now she thinks she is invited."

Furthermore, it has been raining for about 6 straight weeks. I don't remember the last time I saw the sun. And despite the popular song, I DO NOT love Paris when it drizzles. Walking home from the bank through the cold mist, after I failed to make a deposit because I forgot to bring my account info, I started being pulled down by the quicksand of self-pity. Will I ever see the sun again? Will I ever be able to swallow solid food again? Why do I even bother getting out of my pajamas? I was writing a post called "Waiting for the sun" in my head.

I came back and sent 3 CVs for internships. One to UNESCO, one to the Cite de la musique, and one to IRCAM. My "top 3" as far as institutions based in Paris that I would like to work for. About an hour ago, approximately 3 hours after sending the CVs, I was contacted by IRCAM and I have an interview with their marketing and publications department. IRCAM is the electronic music research center in Paris, pretty much the center of all contemporary music in the country. And so the sun has returned, in the form of complicated, room-clearing electronic noise. Suddenly the constant hammering and drilling of the nearby construction site that echoes off of the concrete walls of my courtyard all day is no longer a nuisance but an industrial counterpoint, an urban dialogue.

And I am reminded that I am one lucky kid.

adopt your own virtual pet!

JJ can be visited at any time over at my MySpace page: http://www.myspace.com/mandounette. Don't feed him too much!

When I was a little girl, my relationship with my dad went as so:

Sunday afternoons and Monday nights: Football

Winter evenings: Syracuse basketball

Summer: SF Giants whenever they were playing in Atlanta (TBS), Chicago (WGN & Harry Caray) or New York (MSG)

And every four years, during the month of February: male figure skating.

I have such fond memories of the Battle of the Brians, Dick Button* saying of Bowman the Showman "Every day with Christopher is like a car wreck", Elvis Stoiko and Philippe Candeloro. Rooting against the -enko's and -ovich's and their boring, flawless performances. Numerous toe-loops, salchows and flying camels.

Tonight the Russian deserved his gold medal, but that damn Canadian doofus Buttle, who consequently fell on his Buttle, and the Swiss dude with the most heinous, tiger-striped outfit of all time, didn't deserve to finish in front of the Caravaggio-faced Johnny Weir.

To all the figure-skating judges out there reading tonight, may I just say...Stop the insanity!!!

*Check out the The Dick Button Drinking Game

February 2. That’s what.

I always thought that Groundhog’s Day was a little slice of Americana, as preciously bizarre as Super Bowl Sunday. A sweet little rural tradition that hardly threatens the good Christians of the land.

But little did I know that it is in fact strongly linked to the pagan holiday of candlemas, or the festival of lights (yeah, I thought that was Hannukah too). On this day, you’re apparently supposed to light as many candles as you can and meditate on all of the people who have passed on. It was of course hijacked by Christians in the Middle Ages who introduced the idea of a “blessed candle” that you are supposed to use to light all of the rest.

In France, the days is called “Chandeleur” and it is known more commonly as the Day of Crepes. According to French agrarian legends, if you are holding gold (a coin) in one hand and you can successfully flip the crepe with the other hand, then the next harvest will be copious. For all of the non-hick brethren, a successful flip simply bodes good luck for the year. For unmarried women, the only way to get a man is to successfully flip the crepe six—gasp! Six!—times in a row. And furthermore, an overcast February 2nd indicates an additional 40 days of winter. A clear day…you guessed it, spring is just around the corner.

For more on how to celebrate Chandeleur, check out the eHow article "How to celebrate La Chandeleur"

Or follow these instructions to make it a hybrid, super holiday:

1/ Tune in to Punxatawny Phil in the morning

2/ In the evening, invite your friends over for a crepe party.

3/ Light all of the candles you can get your hands on (I don't think they have to be blessed, but if you're into that, stop by the church on your way home).

4/ Get to the crepe making and flipping.

5/ After you've eaten your little pancakes of good fortune, pop in that existential Harold Ramis classic "Groundhog Day" and settle in.

This has been another odd holiday report. Mandounette signing off.

So sadly, the new Outkast album that was Plan A for Assray's VD gift is not yet out in France. But the 6.99 rack at FNAC was stacked with some interesting choices for Plan B. I had a pile of about 10 that I whiddled down to 2. The final results: Jean Ferrat chante Aragon (chanson francaise from the 70s and words by one of the last great French poets) for the "rrrrrromantic side", complemented by James Brown: Sex Machine. I thought it was a pretty good pair.

In my quest to celebrate every holiday possible (we've already had Year of the Dog at the sichuan restaurant and Groundhog's Day with Bill Murray), I am trying to figure out a way to effectively celebrate the birth of Abraham Lincoln, 16th president of the United States, the Great Emancipator, Honest Abe, one of our most celebrated orators and my grandmother's hero. I still have the little bronze figurine of him giving the Gettysburg Address that she gave me when I was born.

But how to celebrate this holiday in style? Mandounette has the answer.

1. Print out your copy of the Gettysburg Address and learn it by heart. (This will come in handy later).

2. If living in the United States, pay for everything with $5 bills and pennies.

3. Read an excerpt from your Portable Abraham Lincoln to your loved ones.

4. Try to work one of the following Lincoln quotes into a conversation (or any others that you prefer more):

"Tact is the ability to describe others as they see themselves."

"You can fool all the people some of the time, and some of the people all the time, but you cannot fool all the people all the time."

"Allow the president to invade a neighboring nation, whenever he shall deem it necessary to repel an invasion, and you allow him to do so whenever he may choose to say he deems it necessary for such a purpose - and you allow him to make war at pleasure."

"I do not think much of a man who is not wiser today than he was yesterday."

5. Lincoln's father was a bourbon distillery hand in Knob Creek when Abe was growing up so go ahead and knock back a few Knob Creeks. Either drink in moderation (as ol' Abe would've wanted) or prepare to recite the Gettysburg address to all present.

VARIATION: If you are in New York, go to Keene's for your Bourbon. They supposedly have the program that Lincoln was holding when he was assassinated framed on the second floor.

Have a happy Lincoln's birthday and please share any of your personal ways of celebrating this underrated holiday.

Valentine’s Day—the holiday everyone loves to hate—seems to have gotten blown out of proportion. I’ve never really cared much about Valentine’s Day traditions. To me it has always been an occasion to brand the backsides of conversation hearts with Tourette comments such as “Bend over” or “Faked it”, or receive yet another pair of Valentine’s socks from my mom. I still give out store bought Valentines with messages like “You’re a rock star” or “I choo-choo-choose you”, although they’re hard to find in these parts. But as for the candy-and-flowers-Valentine’s-Day that is sold next to the SpongeBob valentines, I’ve never really done that whole thing.

Ok that’s not true. A few years ago I asked AssRay if he would get me the Russell Stover’s special Elvis heart-shaped box of chocolates. And once, my beau and I went to an Italian restaurant near the Eiffel Tower, where they put roses on the plates and gave us sparkly red wine to drink. That was also the only Valentine’s Day in my life where I had multiple boyfriends.

But I have never been one to pout if I don’t have something romantic to do. To me that is not the point. Not being Chinese has not made me bitter against the Chinese New Year. Not being Jewish does not keep me from enjoying the Seder wine and not being in love doesn’t make me rage against Valentine’s Day. I don’t view it as being any more “exclusive” than any other holiday. After all, all holidays were all invented to construct an identity that opposes certain groups of people to others, be it religious divisions or national ones. And love is, after all, more universal than Santa Claus or Guy Fawkes or the Bastille.

I also think that with T minus 2 months until the big W for me, the idea of a holiday that encourages me to turn inward on my couple doesn’t seem all that bad. Because if you are against the shimmery, glittery exterior of Valentine’s Day, it pales in comparison to all of the bullshit that surrounds wedding planning, where the magazines and Web sites and books tell you that, as a woman, you should have been dreaming about this day your whole life. That you need to be incredibly anal retentive about the details—start planning before you’re engaged, pay that $20 a piece for white chair covers, make your bridesmaids track down some obscure colored shoe with a heel of exactly 2 1/4 inches. It is not about love or the couple. It is about taking advantage of the weight of the event and the in-family tensions it causes to make people buy shit in the name of “etiquette”. This is a crime. And for me, personally, caught in the midst of mother-in-law tears and dressmakers guilt, chastising me for not starting my dress search shortly after puberty, it may not be a bad idea this year to take some time with AssRay to be in love. We hardly get to do this with our crazy lives. No, it probably won’t be dinner and candy (unless there exists a heart-shaped box of chocolates with Johnny Hallyday’s face on it.) Nor will it be some kind of planned statement against the “institution”. It will be simply about love—be it a champagne tasting with friends followed by Ethiopian food, or frozen dinners and a dubbed movie, or maybe a little weekend excursion.

So bash the commercialization of the holiday and the tackiness of so many unoriginal couples. But don’t forget the tackiness of self-pity and rage.

It seems curious to me that a holiday that, at its base, is about love and happiness, can garner so much hatred.

If I could, I would give each and everyone of you a conversation heart that said “I love you like pie”

(Reverse side: “Eat me”)